Safety
by At A Venture
Summary: Sometimes, when your life is in shambles, it's nice to feel safe. BA One Shot.


Rain splattered heavily against the windows, leaving grayish streaks on the dull, dirty panes. The frame of the small upper floor apartment shivered with each crash of thunder, each splinter of lightning that shot down from the clouds, targeting the burdened urban streets. Buffy lurched out of the small bathroom with a sigh, wrapping a raggedy towel around her head. A pair of sweatpants lay over the back of an easy chair in the bedroom, and she threw them on in haste, dragging the legs over miscellaneous cuts and bruises. Over her turbaned head, she tossed a light weight tank, a cover that slithered over her torso like fresh sheets on an old mattress.

Her eyes drew her to the mirror that hung at a slant on the wall, and she fell in step in front of it, watching the reflection of the rain. The shower had washed most of the blood away, but the wounds remained, a reminder of the evening she'd concluded, and the ones she could look forward to tomorrow. Her lower lip was split and swollen, reddened with coagulated blood, sore to the touch. She had more cuts around her left temple, the bridge of her eyebrow, the apple of her cheek. A rough scrape ran from the edge of her wrist to the elbow, formerly dotted with chunks of asphalt, scraps of dirt, and pieces of glass. What was it about the rain that drew out evil in this town?

Stretching out bruised and scraped knuckles, Buffy stared harder into the mirror, and came face to face with the worn and washed out vampire slayer she'd become in recent years. Even with thousands of slayers working and training, the work never stopped, the fight never came easily. No two foes were ever really the same, and in the big city, the same old evil seemed more cruel, bitter, and unjust. Her cheeks were drawn, lacking the softness and spunk of her Sunnydale years. Her eyes were cloudy, the irises not nearly as green, the whites slightly yellowed with age. Around them, her skin was puffy and swollen, as though the Slayer never slept. It had been years since the tragedy of Sunnydale, the trials against The First. The years seemed to show in her face, like the rings of age in an old oak tree. Still young though she was, the Slayer was lined with the trials of a life spent struggling. The time in between spread from her sallow cheeks into her weathered eyes, color peeling from her like the paint chipping from the walls in her apartment.

A knock echoed from the front room. Buffy's head jerked up from the mirror's depressing reflection, darting toward the open door of the bedroom. She moved quickly, stealthily toward the apartment's front door, shedding the towel as she went. Retrieving a dusty stake from the kitchen table, Buffy sank toward the door, holding the weapon out and away from her body, armed and silent. Instantly, she regretted never having the cracked glass inside her peep hole fixed. All she could manage to see was the dark outline of a person on the other side of the door. Her breath hissed over her teeth, out of her nostrils as she turned the knob, freezing as the stranger knocked a second time. Sucking in a mouthful of oxygen, Buffy threw open the door, slamming it so hard against the wall that a small table lamp crashed to the floor, shattering.

Angel frowned at her from the raggedy welcome mat, his hair soaked through and his coat leaving puddles on the floor. He lifted his eyes to gather her up, darting his gaze briefly at the slicing sound of ceramic against cement flooring. The stake dropped pathetically from Buffy's outstretched hand, her fingers shaking. Angel watched as her lips trembled, attempting to form words that would never be quite appropriate for the situation. After a few seconds, she simply gestured for him to enter, mumbling an invitation hardly recognizable. The vampire slid his feet over the mat and stepped inside the shelter of the door.

"Angel," Buffy mumbled, looking down at the lamp briefly, then at the stake. It was difficult to avoid looking at him, and yet even more difficult to face his sullen eyes.

"Buffy," Angel murmured in reply, watching her careful movements, her avoidance. "It's been a long time."

"Business or…" She stopped, unable to consider the possibility of a non-business trip. It was never a pleasurable visit between them. After so many years, it seemed time to come to terms with that fact.

"I was in town for business, but…" He paused. "I wanted to see you."

"You wanted to…" Buffy blinked, lifting her chin, allowing her gaze to rest upon his face. Beneath his soggy hair, he was hurting. Blood had dried around his nostrils, at the corner of his mouth. She expected that beneath his heavy coat, he carried battle scars. She moved toward him, sliding his coat from his shoulders. The wool squished between her fingers, dripping grimy rainwater onto the ugly linoleum. He wore a simple white cotton shirt, soaked through with blood in places, torn in others. Instinct told her to clean him up, dress his wounds. It was a difficult reaction to ignore.

"Buffy, I miss you."

His lips pressed gently against her forehead, touching the damp hairline, the warm skin. He inhaled the light scent of aloe vera and coconut in her hair, the underlying rustiness of her blood. Though he desired it, and knew she did as well, he could not, would not lower his lips to hers. If they started, it was difficult to stop. Instead, he remembered the succulent taste of her flesh beneath his tongue, the smooth curves of her breasts and hips, the way she cowered in climax. His hands shook as he held her shoulders.

"I just wanted to see you, to hold you." Angel sighed, dropping his eyes down to hers, tilting her chin with the crook of his finger. His gaze dropped briefly down to her neck, catching a glint of silver on a small chain.

"Sometimes, when your life is in shambles, it's nice to feel safe," Buffy half-smiled.

Taking him by the hand, she led him into the bedroom and drew back the sheets. With the tender hands of a lover, Buffy unbuttoned the ruined shirt and the sticky undershirt beneath it. Angel winced as she worked, turning and bending to her will. Beneath his clothes, the wounds were crusted with coagulated blood, already on the mend. Her fingers moved gently over the edges of a deep cut sweeping across his ribcage. The touch was tender, as doting as a nurse to a young patient. After a moment, he caught her wrist and drew it up to his chest. It was a sign for both of them. Don't let anything get out of hand. Don't do anything foolish. Outside, thunder boomed, and inside, the windows shook.

The bed sheets scratched unpleasantly against Angel's healing skin as he crawled into the bed and moved over to welcome her. They smelled of pain and blood, tears and loneliness, and the distinct sickly-sweetness of orgasm. It sent shivers of pleasure and regret up his spine as he tucked Buffy into the cleft of his elbow.

"Do you feel safe?" Buffy whispered after a few moments of silence, sinking further into the plush mattress beneath them. Her fingers, marred with bruises and nasty cuts, traced up and down his bare forearm. Angel watched her every movement, brushing his fingers idly through her hair.

"Yes," he answered simply, not even batting an eyelash as the lights suddenly flickered out and the hum of the radiator fell silent.

"It happens all the time," Buffy murmured, moving her cheek against his torso, as though trying to absorb some kind of warmth from his lifeless body.

"You'd think the Watcher's Council could find you a better place to live," Angel frowned, glancing at the drawn shades as a sliver of lightning lit up the stained parchment.

"Hm," Buffy replied, half-asleep and fading fast. Her breath slowed, and each inhalation became deeper, more relaxed. Between his hands, he could feel her heart beat, thumping casually beneath her breast. Her troubles faded, resigned to wait for another day. Peacefully, she slept, curled up in the arms of the only man she'd ever loved, the only man she could never have.

"I love you."


End file.
